Rose Tea and Cubicles
by PianiZ
Summary: Arthur's dull days and fog are interrupted by a strange note and a fragrant cup of tea.


Dull, Arthur thought as too-hot-too-cold water sprayed upon him, drumming against the tiles. Dull, Arthur thought as he sat in traffic, London fog heavy against his windshield. Dull, Arthur thought as he sat at his corporate steel desk, keyboards clattering in the cubicles around him.

His coffee maker buzzed behind him. Why did he even have that damn thing? He hated coffee. It was bitter, much like him. Dull. Dull, dull, dull. He didn't remember starting the bloody thing today. Why would he? A hairy hand set a fresh mug down beside him. The thick aroma offended his senses, and he absentmindedly pushed the offending thing away. Dull, Arthur thought, as he sat in traffic. Dull, He thought, as he microwaved the same canned mush he had every night. Dull, he thought. He slept dreamlessly that night, no comforts. Nothing. Dull. Old. Typical. Uneventful in every single way. The morning came, as it did everyday. He showered, shaved and washed and ate and drove to work, as he did, everyday. The cubicle prison, same as always, now contained a single blue sticky note on the handle of a steaming mug. "Slow down, smell the roses" in flowery handwriting accompanied an equally flowery smelling mug of tea. Taking a long sip, Arthur felt warm, as the scent of rose and chamomile surrounded him. The feeling quickly passed, however, and the day returned to its dreadful slow pace. Home, work, home, work, a week went by with no notes. No tea. Repetitive, boring, grey. Arthur wondered who left the tea in the first place, and prayed for his mysterious saviour to return.

The weekend came. Arthur dreaded weekends. The only thing more dull than going to work was staying at home. Sluggishly, he got up and began to boil water for tea. He had recently received a box of a horrid looking black tea with orange and caramel from his son, who had sent it by post from overseas. Arthur grimaced, and took a sip. He gagged and spat it out, pouring the rest of the foul liquid down the kitchen sink.

Arthur decided to buy some decent tea. He ran into town to the Italian shop. He stood in the fragrant aisle, and saw Rose tea. Reaching for some, his hand met another, somehow familiar hand. Muttering to himself, he apologized, and looked up into the face of a blond, blue-eyed man, a five'o'clock shadow gracing a strong, elegant jaw. The man took the box off the shelf and handed it to Arthur. "Here you are," was the only thing he said, and the man turned and left, leaving Arthur standing there.

Arthur returned home, and brewed his tea. The strong scent of flowers wafted towards him, and he felt calmed. The next morning, he had given up on his savior, but he had found a new messiah in the tea leaves and rose petals. Once again, there was no mug of steaming tea at his desk, but there was a note. In the same flowing handwriting as before, "I thought you might like it," was written. That night, as he was packing up to leave, he scribbled a reply. "Who are you?" The next day, no answer came. Simply a puzzling "That would ruin the fun wouldn't it? If you have to know, take a lunch break and meet me in the break room. 2:00." Irritated, but curious, Arthur impatiently went about his work until his watch read 2:00. Hurriedly he ran to the break room, to find no one there. He scanned the room from the supply closet to the table, to the refrigerator. He leaned against the wall, and heard a soft voice behind him. "Come here!"

From the dark supply closet, a hand waved towards him, and beckoned. He took the hand, and was soon enveloped by darkness. Arthur suddenly realized how dangerous this all was when he heard a click of a lock. He didn't know WHO this was. God knows WHAT could have been in the tea that was left for him, but he didn't care. For once, he was intrigued. For once, nothing was... Dull.

"Sorry about this," the voice whispered. " I just didn't want anyone to see." "Who are you?" Arthur demanded. "I can't see in this bloody darkness." The voice let out a laugh. "That was the point! Wouldn't you be embarrassed? If someone heard us? Two men? Like this?" And it dawned on Arthur that, yes, this was inappropriate, in every way. Some might call it disgusting. And yet, that's what made it so damn tantalizing. "I don't care. Show yourself." Carefully, he added, "please?"

"I'm not sure if I can do that, Arthur." There was a silence, as if an idea had struck. "Lend me your hand," he asked. Arthur put his hand up, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see the other man's hand reaching out to him. The man took Arthur's hand in his and brought it up to his face. Arthur could feel smooth skin, and a thin layer of stubble. The man removed his hand from Arthur's, and Arthur cupped the man's face in both hands.

He clumsily brushed his fingers over the man's features, letting his fingers be his eyes as he saw the delicate eyelashes, soft, round lips, and a sharp nose. Arthur pressed himself against the man, and pushed his lips against the others. Their kiss ended, and Arthur could feel the tension in the air evaporate as he realized the implications of his actions. "Sorry, I won't do that aga-" before he could finish his sentence he was swept into a far more passionate kiss.

He braced himself against the door as he felt hands, rough, worked, hands caress him though his shirt. So different than the hands of a woman. Women were soft, and pleasant. And predictable. To him, this man was dangerous, and new. These man's hands were glorious. They tugged at his hair, and begged silently for more with their very touch. The kiss deepened, and Arthur felt his pants tightening. This was all so familiar to him. "Francis?" He realized, and they stopped. "Oh God." The rush was gone. Arthur knew this man. A one-night stand, months ago. Whiskey, Wine, and a company Christmas party. "Arthur?" "What?" "I'm sorry... I wanted to start all over again. I've wanted this for a long time..." Arthur turned to leave, but, those hands. That kiss that tasted of roses. The sheer sexual pleasure that was derived from those those hands that begged and pleaded. He want it. He wanted to feel those hands.

He spun around, and fell onto Francis, who in turn fell into a shelf of rolls of tape, knocking several off the shelves. They paused, wary of the noise. When there were no shouts, no questions, they closed all distance between them, once more in passionate and wild embrace. No reason. No rhyme. Just two of them, in the thick dark. Arthur bit at Francis's neck, and Francis stifled moans and yelps of pleasure. Francis shoved his hands down Arthur's pants to massage his hardened organ. Arthur whimpered at the magnificent sensation. Those hands, those hands. How could he have even thought of leaving these hands, this place. This was ecstasy. Francis circled the tip of Arthur's cock with his thumb, and felt precum form at the head of the penis. He continued to pump Arthur's erection, and Arthur let loose hushed moans as Francis proceeded. He felt his senses cloud, nothing now but rough hands on his sensitive skin, touching every place where they were wanted.

Arthur bit his lip and shuddered as Francis's free hand brushed under his shirt at his back and stomach and chest Arthur was lost in a cornucopia of intoxicating sensations. The taste of roses, the hands, the stench of sweat and sex circulating throughout the closet. The indecency of the very act they were committing, corrupt by definition, but pure in the most unpure ways. The unbridled lust. Tangible and intangible bonded together in that suddenly felt his hand become hot and sticky as Arthur came with a grumble and a moan. He slumped over, blanketing the Frenchman. Francis lifted Arthur's chin with his clean hand, and they curled up together and Francis kissed Arthur. "Can you forgive me?" He asked. "For lying? For... This?" Arthur leaned against Francis. "I don't know." And he felt the atmosphere dampen. "It depends." "Depends?" "On whether or not we can do this again."


End file.
